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place apart."
"That's what he did."
"And you warned him ahead of time that he should get the natives' permission, and he laughed it off. All
right. Your conduct was not only proper, there it was commendable. But why did you have to close the
whole works down? You could have protected that village, and made him put his golf course somewhere
else, and he would have screamed to high heaven without getting anything but laughed at. But you had
to stop everything. Were you trying to get fired? You've cost Wembling a lot of time and a lot of money,
and now he has a real grievance. And he's got plenty of influence."
"It isn't my fault if he wasted time and money," Vorish said. "I advised headquarters of my action
immediately. They could have reversed that order any time they chose."
"That's just it. They didn't dare, because there was always the chance that things might blow up. They
didn't know the situation here. You caused a pretty stew at headquarters. Why did you arrest Wembling,
and keep him in his tent under guard?"
"For his own protection. He'd defiled a sacred place, and I'd be responsible if anything happened to him."
For the first time Corning smiled. "So that's the line. Not bad. It all comes down to a matter of judgment,
and that makes it your opinion against Wembling's. You flip your coin and you take your choice, and no
one who wasn't on the spot is entitled to vote." He nodded. "I'll follow that up in my report. Wembling
stepped out of line. Definitely. The consequences might have been serious. I can't rightly say that your
action was too drastic, because I wasn't here at the time. I don't exactly see what you were trying to do,
or maybe I do, but I'll back you up as much as I can. I guess I can keep you from being shot."
"Oh," Vorish said. "So they were going to shoot me. I wondered."
"They were . . . they are . . . going to do their worst." Corning looked steadily at Vorish. "I don't much
like it, but I have my orders. You'll return to Galaxia on the Hiln, under arrest to stand court-martial.
Personally I don't think you have much to worry about. I can't see them going ahead with it, but right
now they think they want to try."
"I won't worry," Vorish said. "I've studied this thing through pretty carefully. I rather hope they try,
though. I'll insist on a public court-martial, of course, and . . . but I'm afraid they won't do it. Anyway,
I'm glad I'll be leaving Langri in capable hands."
"Not my hands," Corning said. "Not for long. The 984th Squadron is on its way now, to take over.
Eleven ships. They're not taking any chance on this thing getting out of hand. The commander is Ernst
Dillinger just made admiral a few months ago. Know him?"
file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20krui...g%20&%20Mark%20Tier%20-%20Give%20Me%20Liberty.html (28 of 203)22-2-2006 0:37:25
Give Me Liberty
IV
The fishing boat was still in position, far out. Dillinger raised his binoculars, lowered them. As far as he
could see, the natives were fishing. He returned to his desk and sat gazing seaward at the fleck of color
that was the sail.
The plush spaciousness of his office annoyed him. It was only his second day in the quarters Wembling
had persuaded him to occupy in the completed wing of Hotel Langri, and he was spending most of his
time pacing in out-sized circles about the work that piled up on his desk.
He was worried about the natives. He was worried about an enigmatic something or other which they
called the Plan, and which they intimated would eventually sweep Wembling and his workers and his
hotels right off the planet.
With Hotel Langri opening for business in a few months, and work already beginning on two other
hotels, Dillinger knew that the legal expulsion of Wembling had become a flat impossibility. So what
were the natives planning? Illegal expulsion? The use of force? With a squadron of the Space Navy
standing by?
He got to his feet again and walked over to the curved expanse of tinted plastic that formed the window.
The fishing boat was still there. Every day it was there. But perhaps, as Protz suggested, the water off
the point was merely a good place to fish.
His intercom clicked. "Mr. Wembling, sir."
"Send him in," Dillinger said, and turned towards the door.
Wembling entered jauntily, hand outstretched. "Morning, Ernie."
"Good morning, Howard," Dillinger said, blinking at Wembling's ridiculously patterned shirt.
"Come down to the lounge for a drink?"
Dillinger lifted a stack of papers from his desk, and dropped it. "Sure."
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